FlipSide:Starting November 26, 2001

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A journal of the trials, tribulations, and
triumphs in the life of a woman in the 21st century.

Last Updated : Sunday, December 02, 2001 10:24 PM -0600

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Monday, November 26, 2001

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Yes, it's another day of no post for her.

Tuesday, November 27, 2001

Yes, she's still recovering from the book, the snow, the turkey, the two kids, and myself. It's a miracle she's not insane... She deserves much better, but this should work for starters...

Color and other selections are her choices - composition's mine. Therefore it's my fault - a fact all married men know well. Thus, complaints to the usual bin, and bouquets of compliments to you know who.

Wednesday, November 28, 2001

Thursday, November 29, 2001

Lest you think I have dropped off the face of the Earth . . .

I am alive and well (sort of). I have spent the last week intensively working on graphs, charts, narratives explaining loss reserves and ULAE, and slideshows. (Did you know you can make loss reserves march? Mine are marching to the tune of the Washington Post March.) I am to the point that I MUST look at something besides actuarial stuff or I am going to run screaming naked out a window. Well, not screaming, that will make my head ache. And, on second thought, not naked, its too cold and my office windows look right into those of the office tower across the way. That's a bit too much of a frolic for an investment bankers to handle. And maybe not out the window, the 6th floor is still plenty high up. And its too cold and damp to go outside at all. Maybe I will just run in circles inside and chase my tail. My imaginary tail (the real one was bobbed at birth, I'm told). Or should that be tale, since it is imaginary? Nah, I need to save my energy, I have children to chase and groceries to buy. I'll just talk in circles instead. Naw, that takes too much thought and my brain hurts. Okay, I know! I'll just write a rambling post!

(ed - Great, now it's ALL my fault... -- jd. ;-)

Friday, November 30, 2001

The semi annual shearing of the Dominiks and a stroll around the local mega market kinda did me in . . . Especially coming after the week I've had. (An 8 pound actuarial book with 5 tabs, 20 exhibits, and 8 appendices, all of which had become screwed up somewhere along the line and a palace coup just does NOT make for a peaceful week.)

Saturday, December 1, 2001

Then there's the combined birthday party with 10 5-8 year old in a swimming pool. After, of course, some games and high doses of sugar. Take my advice, never make punch out of Cherry-Star Fruit Kool-aide and Raspberry Ginger ale. Besides the fact that it tastes like overly sweet cough syrup, it ACTS like pure dynamite on the systems of small children. I might as well just fed them a 5 pound bag of sugar dissolved in a gallon of water. (It probably would have tasted better too.) DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME.

Sunday, December 2, 2001

I think it is safe to say that my son will never be a surgeon. This morning I was awakened by my daughter's dulcet tones informing me her brother was bleeding and I had better hurry. Apparently he had been attempting to perform some surgery on his unopened box of walkie-talkies from yesterday with a steak knife (something he had been told EXPRESSLY not to do just a few minutes before) and instead managed to plunge said knife into his index finger. My bathroom looked like a scene out of CSI, with blood on the floor, the sink, the fixtures, and, of course, the wall. Luckily, the cut looks to be not too serious, just messy. A little Bactine (I love Bactine in a case like this, not only is it a disinfectant, it teaches a lesson too, 'cause it STINGS!) and a tightly wrapped Band-Aid and he is now ensconced on the couch with his tickle blankey watching Tarzan. He cut himself right around the knuckle, in fact, roughly same place I did it on 2 fingers myself in my childhood. In fact, I still carry the scars from my battles with the falling Pepsi bottle (don't try to catch a falling Pepsi bottle, it's just NOT a good idea) and a stubborn soup can (you know, your knuckle hurts an awful lot when it comes into contact with the edge of a freshly opened can of Tomato soup.) I think someone will be staying out of the knives for a while.

My daughter is apparently attempting to put her father on his deathbed. She has been planning her wedding to Alex (he who John refers to as "Dead Man Walking".) Apparently she and DMW had been making a snow fort the other day, along with several of their friends. One of whom has become her confidant. In fact, sounds like he has a crush on her, but that is another story. Anyway, she has begun picking out her wedding party. She has already picked out a couple of groomsmen and bridesmaids. However, she is still debating the colors. Oh, and she hasn't let DMW in on this yet. You know, I know all little girls plan this stuff out way in advance. I did too. However, at eight, I didn't like boys. I was planning to have children some day, just without the help of a man. I just hadn't figured out quite how. I was just certain it was possible. In fact, at 14, boys were okay in the abstract, but I still wasn't sure I wanted one anywhere near me. (Sometimes I STILL rethink that one.) I think she is starting a bit early. John just looked at her, shook his head, and took his blood pressure medication.

(ed - no, I'd missed that little bit about wedding planning. Oh well. At this age, I think it quite appropriate the father of the bride wear camouflage and carry various... well, implements of destruction. Oy vey, indeed -- jd)

And if that doesn't kill him, I just might. I made up some of my home made Irish Cream liquor for Belands when they were here and put the little bit left over in one of my small glass jars. Last night, John was feeling the need for a little fortification and decided to get the jar out and have a slug. Unfortunately the jar I had stored it in had apparently not quite been cleaned thoroughly enough. You see, it was a garlic jar. Garlic Cream anyone? John took a healthy swig and started choking. Then I think he headed for the bathroom to scrape off his tongue.

And below, added later...

Well, at least he got a sucker out of the deal . . .

After Mass, lunch, and Harry Potter (a wonderful flick, by the way, highly recommended) it appeared Jack had continued to leak important bodily fluids from his finger. So, off we went for another Mother-Son bonding experience at the Urgent Care. As soon as he saw the place, he started with the mournful wail of "noooooo". Seems he remembers that every time he has been to the place a needle and thread has been involved. But, he gamely went in anyway, carefully holding his finger carefully in front of his body, so the medical personnel could properly appreciate the grievous injury it was. After filling out the proper insurance paperwork and dutifully paying my copay, we were ushered back to the suture room. The same one where the stitches to his head were done in. Both times.

After soaking the wounded digit, our doctor (a 12 year-old refugee from the Lollipop Guild, I think) dutifully examined the gash and pronounced it in need of stitches. 3 as a matter of fact. Jack was not pleased and proceeded to let the entire building know that he was being tortured as Dr. Munchkin hopped up on his step stool and began the procedure. To keep Jack still while he was knitted back together, I pressed his head firmly to my bosom (no, he didn't suffocate, thank you VERY much) and sang to him. After it was all done and Jack was admiring the split on his finger, the doctor told me he didn't know if the singing helped Jack (who he kept calling Johnny, I gave up correcting him) but it sure soothed him. Great. I wonder if his mother still sings him to sleep. Or even if he shaves yet. Okay, to be fair, the guy was probably in his 20s. But I swear to you he was under 5 feet tall and looked like he was still in Junior High. But Jack seemed to like him. Probably 'cause he looked like a playmate.

(ed - and with my son, we can't be sure if she's talking a boy his age or a Playboy Playmate. Not that I'm allowed to have those in the house any more... -- jd)

Well, frankly, I am feeling drained and my head aches, so this is all I have to give.

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Copyright © 2001 Ann Dominik. All rights reserved. Complaints about the technical details of this page can be directed to the abused geek who takes care of it for me, and is grossly underpaid for what he does, he thinks. No reproduction without written permission. The opinions and content of this site are my own, and not the responsibility of this site's host, my employer, my pets, my parents or anyone else you may care to blame. Please respect my opinions and I will do the same for you. I may on occasion publish e-mail to me; if you do not wish your mail to be published, please write CONFIDENTIAL or DO NOT PUBLISH at the top of the e-mail. If you would prefer to remain anonymous, please note that as well. If you're incapable of reasoned civilized discourse but feel compelled to correspond with me, I'll be happy to filter your mail out after a few choice comments regarding your ancestors, upbringing, and the likelihood of your family tree not